


Open Up Your Eyes, Breathe Easy

by overstreets



Category: One Direction (Band), Union J (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Christmas Fluff, Eating Disorders, Fluff, High School, It's just fluff - that's all it is I'm warning you, M/M, Multi, Rimming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-05
Updated: 2013-06-05
Packaged: 2017-12-14 01:13:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overstreets/pseuds/overstreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one expects Harry and George, very least of all Harry or George, but it is how it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Open Up Your Eyes, Breathe Easy

**Author's Note:**

> This is just shmoopy feelings fluff with some sex, that's all this is.
> 
> Just general information:  
> I wanted to fit everyone into a high school setting, and the easiest way I found to do that was correspond everybody's ages to their X Factor year. So, if that confuses you, there it is.
> 
> I have only a basic knowledge of the English school system, but it's holiday time in this fic, so I can get away with it.
> 
> Title from Gabrielle Aplin's 'Wake Up With Me' but John Mayer definitely makes up the soundtrack to this fic.

The thrum of bass and a generic electronic beat reverberates through the entire house. It echoes and rattles through Harry’s bones where he dances; hands on the hips of the first leggy blond who had been brave enough to throw her hair over her shoulder and wink in his direction.

Despite how well his night seemed to be turning out, Harry couldn’t be any less interested if he tried. The girl plastered to his front - Anna? Amanda? - was doing all she seemingly could to keep his attention, but it was all he could do not to roll his eyes.

It’s Louis’ birthday and Christmas Eve, and it wasn’t that Harry didn’t want to be there to celebrate, but Niall and Zayn had yet to show and Louis had disappeared upstairs a half hour earlier with Nick, leaving Harry to flounder in awkward conversations with people he’d never met before. Harry loved Louis, but it was very difficult to enjoy a party in his friend’s name when the boy himself wasn’t present to celebrate it with.

Harry was far from antisocial. He was open and friendly and warm, and he got along with people just fine, even tended to draw people towards him, but had very little patience when those people were drunk and he was drinking water. Not very good for a conversation, to be honest. The girl he was dancing with - whose name he wasn’t even going to bother trying to think of any longer - had one sweaty palm on the back of his neck, the other grasping a drink that she was successfully sloshing all over his shirt. She was staring up at him the same way Sophie Keane had just before she’d kissed him at her fourteenth birthday party and -

“You’re so fit, Harry.”

Yep, not just a dance.

Harry breathes out through his nose, keeps moving. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” She rushes. “We were in the same chemistry class freshman year and I just thought you were amazing, but then --”

“I’m sorry, I’m going to get a refill. I’ll be back,” He says, having devised a quick exit. It was cruel, he knows, but it would have been even worse to let the girl finish when he didn’t want to hear what else she was going to say, would only have to let her down, anyway. Steadily ignoring the girl’s half-hearted protest, he lets go, pulls himself away and begins finding his way through the crowd, making a bee-line straight towards the kitchen.

It’s far less crowded than the living room; there’s a couple of girls Harry knows vaguely mixing drinks at the island bench, but not much of anybody else. Just a lot of empty and half-full bottles. He stands in the doorway, surveying the room until his eyes catch on something - _someone_ he was not honestly expecting to see.

The refrigerator door is opened, but all that is visible of the person rummaging inside it is jean-clad legs and a cute little arse, bent at the waist - the rest is too busy peering into the huge cavity of a fridge, inspecting mounds of food that anyone but Louis would have hidden away. Harry folds his arms and stares, shameless, eyes freely roaming up small, defined legs.

The girls move back into the party with hushed whispers, but Harry barely blinks. He’s far too preoccupied; doesn’t really care much at all for anything else around him anymore.

“You know,” Harry grins as he jumps at the sound of someone so close, head shooting up into view, mere centimeters from hitting one of the stacked shelves. “If you keep your arse out, looking so good like that, someone might start getting ideas, Georgie.”

George’s already gentle features relax, soften, and break into a grin when he realises just who it is, and Harry feels slightly giddy at that simple affection. There weren’t many people who could unravel him the way that George did, and every action he took made his stomach knot with _want_. Even if they can’t get away from the noise of that party, he’s glad nobody else is in the room, wants to pull George in and wrap himself around the younger boy, wants to do so many things he normally saves until they’re alone. It’s more than he would consciously allow anybody to see.

“ _Harry_ ,” George greets, voice full of relief. He stands up fully and starts to move away from the refrigerator towards him, and Harry has to ignore the blatant adoration evident in his voice to regain any kind of composure and hold over himself.

It’s short-lived, he can’t say he really had much of a hold to begin with, and he moves to meet George half way, reaches past his shoulder to shut the still-open fridge door, backs him up against it.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” He says, voice a deep, barely audible rumble, letting his gaze fall over the other boy’s open face. “Thought you were stuck at home.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” George answers gently, he’s grinning, hand trailing up the front of Harry’s button-up. “And, well... I wanted to spend Christmas Eve with you.”

Harry smiles, mostly doesn’t know how to react. He still has trouble comprehending that the way he loves George is mutual. It’s clear how much he adores him, thinks he’s made of pure sunshine, and knowing that George adores him too is mostly still a shock.

He doesn’t, however, like the idea that George has been alone at the party, trying to find him, and that seems like an easier topic to broach than his adoration. “Have you been here long?”

George shakes his head, “I don’t know. I mean, I was looking for you and then someone offered me a drink, and then I had another one... And another one. And maybe another? And I don’t really know.” Harry laughs, kisses into his temple.

“Right, then, d’you like the party, love?”

“It’s a lot better now,” George replies, and Harry feels his chest inflate with a warmth he can’t really put his finger on. George’s fingers curl around his bicep and he leans in, or maybe just sways, and Harry can tell that he wasn’t lying about having a couple. “Was waiting for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I... saw you with her. Dancing.” George frowns straight at his chest, averts his eyes, and the warm feeling deflates. Harry can’t even help but grasp his hip and push himself even closer. He gets rid of any space between them, lips at George’s ear.

“Babe,” He soothes. “Babe, were you jealous?”

George doesn’t look up, or say a word. There’s a pause as Harry scrambles to think of what to say to make it better. He knows George _does_ really know how much he loves him, but he also knows that George is constantly dealing with insecurities and anxieties and probably has to push away horrible thoughts more often than he does let on.

“I don’t want that... I don’t want her. There’s just this one person I want to be with tonight.” Harry starts gently, nudging at George’s temple with his nose, circling his arms around his waist. “He’s somehow the most adorable person and dangerously, _dangerously_ sexy at the same time. Very lovely. Sometimes, like just about right about now, he looks at me as though he can’t believe a word I’m saying about him, but I _do_ mean every word. I was kind of hoping I could dance with him.”

George blushes a tremendous shade of pink, cheeks already stained with alcohol, but Harry’s sure it can go deeper.

“All I thought about was you - dancing with you, showing you off-” He leans closer, voice dropping, “Getting you home and getting you naked.”

Harry’s shameless, really. He wants to remind George as often as possible that he _wants_ him, all the time, and can’t really bring himself to care, because he’s _allowed_ to be stuck on him, allowed to want and brag and adore him endlessly.

“I... Mum’ll lose it if I’m not home tonight.” George replies shakily, and Harry knows that George wouldn’t have come to the party if he wanted to go home without him, had to know that Harry would go wherever he wanted.

He grins, pushes a thumb under the hem of George’s shirt. “I was thinking I could take you home, sweet talk Toni into letting me stay if she’s still awake when we get there. Just want to curl up in bed with you, kiss you absolutely silly,” He kisses at the junction of George’s neck and jaw, grins. “Then maybe wake you up in the morning with my mouth on your cock.”

“... Maybe,” George gulps. “Maybe going home is a good idea. You’re just -- She’d let you stay, you know.” He is looking up at Harry from beneath his lashes, irises swallowed up by black.

There’s something heavy in his words - the drunken heaviness of _stay_ \- and there’s absolutely no way that Harry can say no. No way he’d even want to. He’s a bit gone, to be honest, already decided. He leans down, as though he’s about to whisper a secret.

“I think she might even let me stay for lunch.”

 

* * *

 

No one expects Harry and George, very least of all Harry or George.

George is a couple grades lower, all wide Bambi eyes and big, soft grins. Teetering on androgynous and the kind of shy that only comes from years of teasing and bullying.

It doesn’t cross anyone’s mind that they might even have spoken to one another; that Harry might see past all of that, or want it... After all, George is still just a kid and Harry is all cool, unaffected demeanor; open sexuality and seemingly endless experience. No one had even thought that they would give each other the time of day.

But one day Harry catches some boys calling him a fag in the loos, and that’s it. He takes the younger boy under his wing and from then on it’s almost impossible to find a Harry without a George tucked under his arm; a George without a Harry sleeping during free periods with his head on his lap.

It’s not even a slow process. It’s rare that George feels so incredibly comfortable with someone after only a short amount of time, but then he meets Harry. Harry tells him these wonderful things; not to listen to anyone else, that George is perfect and lovely and _you’re gorgeous, Georgie_ , and George has to try to remember not to drop his heart somewhere on the way to fifth period after Harry kisses his cheek and walks away.

No one bothers to pick on George anymore, and whether it’s that or the fact that he now has a Harry that changes him, it’s all for the better. He settles into his skin, doesn’t worry so much about other people.

He convinces himself that - no, he _knows_ it’s all Harry. Without the older boy, he still wouldn’t have anyone to sit with at lunch times; would still be alone and miserable - the weird gay kid who used to be big and couldn’t talk to anyone. He’d been sad and lonely, with few people willing to give him the time of day. Now, there’s a positive force to counteract all that bad.

It’s not that everything is fixed. Things aren’t suddenly perfect, and it’s not as though people suddenly decide that they like him - they just tend to leave him alone, and that’s something he’s very alright with. What’s more pressing is that not all of Harry’s friends have warmed to him, either. Louis in particular seems to be wary of his presence and hasn’t so much as smiled at him that he can recall. He treats him as though he’s done nothing but take his friend away, but George supposes he can overlook that, too. He doesn’t think Louis ever really understood how lonely Harry was. Louis had a Nick, Zayn had a Perrie and Liam had a Danielle, while Harry didn’t really have anyone. Niall doesn’t even go to the same school, so George doesn’t think he counts.

But now Harry has a George, and George thinks Louis should try harder to understand for Harry’s sake. Harry loves Louis just as much as he always has; he just loves George now, too.

Louis is extremely intimidating for someone half a head shorter than him, is all.

What George has now is far more than he ever thought he’d be able to have, though, so it doesn’t matter so much what anyone things anymore. He’d never imagined that his high school experience would be anything but miserable, he hadn’t let himself have anything else.

Yet somehow, he’s now happy. He has a Harry and a (relatively) normal high school experience, and George is nothing but ridiculously content.

As autumn blends into winter and Christmas holidays begin, they find themselves inseparable. Louis’ disdain is the furthest thing from his mind, when their mitten-covered hands fit so well together, and when Harry looks so good, pink-nosed and hair snow-dusted.

His newly acquired place at the Shelley family dinner table every day goes unmentioned, as does the way he stays seated after everybody else has finished and moved away to coax George through the larger of the meals they share - whispering gentle words and rubbing soothingly at the small of his back, or simply holding his hand. He sometimes catches the loaded looks his parents shoot Harry across the room, doesn’t quite understand what they mean except for the equally heavy feeling in his chest.

And then there’s Anne; Anne and Robin and their open home (“You’re always welcome, sweetheart, don’t let Harry keep you away.”), and their picture of Harry and George on their mantle. As soon as he meets them both, George understands how Harry came to be who he was. Anne sits him in the lounge and pulls out photo albums of Harry’s childhood, but when Harry stalks into the kitchen in protest she thanks him, tells him how happy her son is and how he has changed for the better, because of George.

There’s nothing he can do at that point, other than tell her the truth. He tells her what Harry’s done for him, how he could have anyone in the world but he wants _George_ , he tells her that he’s in love and can’t ignore her glazed eyes or the way she reaches to cup his cheek in her hand as though he’s her own son.

When he’s done, and sees Harry leaning against the doorframe, he blushes, bashful, and offers a soft smile before he’s whisked up off his feet and attacked with kisses. Right there, right in front of his mother, Harry kisses George as though it’s all he can do. Perhaps it is; it feels like a big _moment_ and George himself is actually at a loss for anything to say.

He wanted to say those words to Harry, though, not to his mother. Not for Harry to hear them secondhand.

Neither of them notice when Anne slips away. They’re far too preoccupied, even as George pulls back, sinks down to the balls of his feet. He’s far enough away now that he can look Harry squarely in the eyes as he tangles their fingers, repeats himself, “I do love you.”

There’s a look on Harry’s face, something like disbelief, and George thinks he might pull away. Instead he simply huffs, bringing their hands up to kiss George’s knuckles. “I love _you_. I’m crazy about you.”

His words wash over George with the gentleness of a crashing ocean wave, and George would be a liar if he said he’d ever heard anything better.

 

* * *

 

Harry wakes to Christmas Day, a George wrapped around him, ten missed calls and fourteen texts.

He knows who a majority of them are from without even checking, but he decides to read them, anyway.

Mum (11:37pm):  
Alright dear. Have a good night and make sure Georgie comes over for dinner! Merry Christmas, love you! xxoo

Louis (11:56pm):  
You still here?

Niall (12:15am):  
mate whereya?? were here, lou’s absolutely spewin lol!

Zayn (12:18am):  
I’d get back here if i were you mate x haha

Louis (12:28am):  
Wellllll, I see ghow it is !!

Louis (12:33am):  
You’re officfiially on my shit slist STtyles !!

  
The quality of the texts continually descends, and Harry sighs and gives up on deciphering them very quickly. He figures he’ll call Louis back when he’s awake and coherent, but there are far more pressing matters at hand, like the boy curled loosely under his chin.

George’s breathing is steady, his hand grips loosely at Harry’s bare side, and all Harry can think through early morning haze is that he’s the luckiest. The way George’s eyes crinkle and he covers his face when he finds something particularly funny, the way he tries so hard with Harry’s friends even though he has absolutely nothing to prove to them, the way he flushes from his cheekbones to his chest when Harry is inside him, the way he tangles their pinkies between them as a simple excuse to touch, the way his eyes light up as soon as he sees Harry, the way a simple touch of his hands would make George absolutely _purr_ ; everything about George made him feel lucky.

Threading his fingers through George’s hair, flat from sleep, Harry wonders how he managed to deserve something so perfect.

It was right then that he decides that, _yes_ , he really needed to fulfil his promise from the night before. With a kiss to George’s temple, he shuffles out from underneath him and moves him just how he wants him as gently as he can manage. When George is laid flat on his back, Harry moves down between his legs, blanket falling over his shoulders.

He begins mouthing softly at George’s bare abdomen, placing kisses above his bellybutton before trailing down to the waistband of his boxers, tonguing just underneath while his hands massage up and down the younger’s thighs.

George lets out a soft, breathy moan above him, but when Harry’s eyes flit up to look he can immediately tell that he hasn’t yet awoken.

Doubling his efforts, Harry pulls George’s boxers down below his cock and balls. He takes his time admiring the boy beneath him, all gangly limbs and soft, flat planes. He’s all boy, elbows and collar bones and straight up and down without being hard muscle and angle, and Harry has never found anyone sexier.

Blowing out gently onto the exposed cock in front of him, Harry watches as it stirs and George squirms. He nuzzles at the base, before moving down even further to suckle at each of his balls in turn, paying attention to each with his tongue and the pillow of his lips. The soft noises, the whines and huffs of breath coming out of George are still far too quiet and lax for him to be awake.

Turning his attention to the shaft, Harry licks a long stripe up the underside, enveloping the head and sucking with a flick of his tongue. With a ‘pop’ he lets go, allows it to fall to the side so that he can kiss his way back down to the base and repeat the action of licking back up, swirling his tongue this time as he goes. Harry sucks a little more intensely once he’s reached the tip, now that George is harder. He allows his tongue to play along the edge, leaving the whole head of his cock spit-slicked and red.

“ _Harry_.”

His eyes flick up at the broken moan of his name, and Harry would properly grin around his mouthful at the sight of George if he could. His hands are fisted in the sheets, mouth opened and face flushed, half-closed eyes staring down at him.

Pulling off, Harry licks his palm and swipes it over the wet head of George’s dick before pumping him once, twice. “Morning, sweetheart,” He grins. “Merry Christmas.”

“I-Your mouth,” Is all George can seemingly muster, voice raspy with sleep, but Harry continues with a flick of his wrist.

“You want it back?”

George makes an abortive sound and throws an arm across his face.

“Hey, hey, none of that. Lemme see you.” Whining, George complies and instead fists his hand back into the sheets.

“Please, _please Harry_.”

“I’ll take care of you, Georgie. So patient for me, aren’t you? Haven’t even bucked once.”

Harry continues soothing George, a litany of _yes, sweetheart, I’ve got you, y’re alright Georgie, gonna be good for me_ as he fists the boy’s length. He can’t stop staring. It’s mesmerizing, the way George’s bottom lip quivers with each shaky breath, the way he fights so hard to keep his eyes open.

He wants to tear George apart slowly, make him writhe and beg and beg for release. Wants to see him come apart beneath him more than anything else. But he can’t ignore what day it is, or how absolutely screwed they would be if one of George’s younger siblings decided to burst in to wake them and pull them downstairs for presents. He knows they’re running on limited time.

With no warning, he sucks George down, the boy giving a whimper and a soft ‘ _Ohh_ ’ at the contact. His tongue works as he begins to bob up and down shallowly, deliberately only reaching half way.

Licking across the slit, Harry smirks as much as he possibly can when George jerks and a hand reaches down to tangle in his curls. He pulls off immediately, cruelly, and noses at the base.

“Tell me what you want, babe.”

A vicious sob tears its way from George’s throat, his hand tightens, “ _Can’t_.”

“You can,” Harry soothes, jerks him with his hand. “I know you can, you’re so good. I’ll give you anything.”

“Mouth, want your mouth,” George gasps as Harry twists his wrist.

“‘S that all?”

“D-don’t be a wanker. Just... want you in me. Want to come.”

As primitive as George’s sentences are becoming, Harry does exactly what he asks. He swallows George down, inch by inch, as far as he can reach. Fighting his gag reflex and watering eyes for as long as he can, he eventually pulls away to breathe, eyeing the line of spit still connecting his mouth to George’s prick. There was a realisation at some point that he isn’t half as good as George at sucking cock, but he knows there was no chance of that anyway, can’t begrudge the boy anything.

“Harry, please,” He pleads, voice broken and needy, and Harry complies. He goes back down as far as he can to comfortably establish a rhythm. He begins to move with purpose, bobbing up and down and creating as much suction as possible, chasing every little whine and moan that comes out of the boy beneath him.

And then there’s the shrill sound of his phone ringing to break any small amount of momentum he’d built.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, the same time as George begins to chant, “No, no, no no, please.”

“I’m not answering, I’m not answering,” He assures, climbing up and pressing a chaste kiss to George’s lips before reaching down to decline the call and switch his phone to silent mode. It’s a few short moments before he’s done, and moves back to hover over George’s flushed, panting form. “All done, babe. It’s all done.”

Rather than moving back down immediately to continue, Harry continues to stare down at George and, yeah, kissing him would be a really good idea.

Their lips meet, George arching his neck to get the angle just right. His arms curl around Harry’s neck and shoulders, keeping him just where he wants him. Settled between George’s legs, they move against each other and it’s really no wonder that Harry never wants to let the boy go. He’s warm and gentle-soft and he looks at him as though he’s hung the moon, though Harry has done no such thing. His lips are plump and almost always weather-chapped and bitten raw, but he finds that it definitely doesn’t stop his body from feeling as though it’s on fire when they kiss. He can’t remember anything that could compare to the sensation of George’s lips against his own.

“Keep going?” George huffs against his lips and, right, there are things to attend to.

He grins, “Right, bossy,” Before kissing his way down his neck, his chest, down his torso and down his abdomen, moving down his body with practiced ease. Looking up with a grin, having reached his destination feeling far more playful and determined, Harry decides that there’s no longer any use teasing. He gives a couple of pumps, laps at the head of George’s cock for good measure, before resuming his previous actions. It doesn’t take long for him to he pick up on a rhythm, taking almost all of him into his mouth, and Harry feels far too proud of the breathless moans the younger releases.

When George lifts his knees and places his feet squarely on the bed, Harry can’t help but take advantage of the opportunity presented to him. His hand trails the back of George’s thigh, over the small swell of his ass and teases between his cheeks, fingers still slicked with spit. It’s a slight touch, but he hears the other’s breath catch in his throat, feels him try to push his body down; all the incentive he needed.

Breathing through his nose and slowing his movements to help him concentrate, Harry begins to massage the skin around George’s still-sensitive hole. His finger draws slow, teasing circles around the puckered rim, while his other hand curls underneath himself to fist his own cock.

“P-please. So close, Ha-”

George is cut off with a moan, his hips pushing back on to Harry’s hand, chasing his own release. The verbal confirmation isn’t needed, however, and Harry doesn’t need any further instruction. He breaches George with only the tip of his finger, unsurprised when a hand tangles in his curls again as though they’re an anchor. Gently, he twists until he’s in to the second knuckle and pulls back until his lips are wrapped only around the head, sucking hard and flicking his tongue across the slit.

And that’s it. George throws his head back and comes with an almost-pained whimper. Harry happily swallows down the bitter taste of cum that lands on his tongue, moving his hand from his own cock to George’s length, pumping him through it.

When George is left panting, Harry releases him. Kissing his thigh and sitting back on his haunches, he’s perfectly content just to fist his own cock with the sight in front of him, but George has other plans.

“C’mere,” He beckons immediately when he finds his voice, hoarse and lazy, hands making grabbing attempts in his direction. “I want to help.”

Harry heaves himself up over George, and he’s immediately pulled down with a hand on the back of his head. George begins to kiss and lick and bite at his neck without delay, and Harry almost misses the way that his hand slides between their bodes to palm at his hard length.

“I think,” George begins as he jerks Harry. His voice is hazy with sleep, but it doesn’t matter one bit when he knows exactly what he’s doing. “I think I want to wake up like that every morning. Your lips, your mouth.”

Harry can barely breathe. He’s panting, using all his energy to keep holding himself above George, and every time he feels as though he can catch his breath George steals it right away from him with a flick of his wrist or his absolutely dirty mouth. His words are punctuated with nibbles on Harry’s pulse point, a butterfly kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“But, I think I want to try it for myself,” He continues, and it’s definitely not fair that everything he says sounds so innocent when it’s _not_. “You know I love to blow you, I think I should. What if... what if you didn’t even wake up until you were coming all over my face?”

Harry groans, thrusts into George’s grip when he begins twisting on the upstroke.

“I don’t know, though. You know what sounds even better?”

Harry stutters, and it takes his mind a moment to catch up to the idea that he needs to answer. “I--I can’t think of anything that would.”

It’s almost impossible for Harry to stop himself collapsing when George tightens his grip and speeds up his movements. He lets his head drop into the crook of George’s neck, George nipping at his ear. All the sensations are overwhelming, and he _almost_ misses when he gets a reply.

“If I woke you up, bouncing on your cock.” Harry whimpers, and he’s close. “I’d still be wet from the night before, wet and stretched, and I’d just _sink_ down.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Mhmm,” George giggles, and fuck, Harry feels hot all over. He can’t even think straight, just knows this is great and he loves him. “I want it. Usually when I ride you, you’re so dirty. Never shut up. I’d love to see if I took you by surprise.”

Harry chokes, echoing ‘ _fuck_ ’ into George’s neck, trying to hold back a moan. “Can’t help it. You’re gorgeous. I can’t stop telling you how amazing you are.”

He kisses at George’s shoulder, still thrusting down shallowly into his’s guitar-calloused hand, feeling every movement as his other slides down from brushing through his sweaty-curled hair to the small of his back, raising goosebumps in its path.

“You’re ridiculous, you know? Ten seconds away from coming into my hand and you’re still charming.”

“ _George_ , fuck, I’m-”

The feeling is building in Harry’s stomach, and the world narrows down to George and his hand on Harry’s length.

“That’s right, come on, Harry. Feel so big in my hand. I can feel it. Come for me, I want to taste you, you know I love that.”

And he does; bites into George’s shoulder and comes with a low groan as if by command. He can feel himself pulsing hotly as George works him through his orgasm, still whispering into his ear.

He tries to catches his breath, but it’s only a moment before he slumps down onto George, not caring about the mess between them.

“Oi, get off, you. It’s not very romantic if I’m suffocated, is it?”

Harry groans and rolls off to the side, reaching to grab a couple tissues from George’s bedside table to wipe them both down. He turns back to clean their bellies, but doesn’t expect to find George already licking at his fingers, even with all his talk. The moan that leaves him is _pained_ as he settles down onto his back, covers his eyes with a hand because it should be _illegal_. George knows exactly what he’s doing. He giggles, curls into Harry’s side, half on top of him despite his own protest moments ago. He takes the tissues from Harry, gently wipes them both down, pulls his underwear back up and tucks himself back into his pants.

“You’re an absolute monster,” Harry tells him, wraps his arm around George and pulls him closer.

He yawns, sated, and tangles a leg around Harry’s. “Nope, I’m a monkey.”

“You’re still just trouble, either way.”

Harry watches as George grins and giggles again, tilts his head up to look him right in the eye. And, well, what can Harry do but kiss him? He pushes forward, just a press of the lips and then another, before pulling away.

“Love you,” says George, looking up at Harry the way he does sometimes, like Harry’s his whole world, and Harry doesn’t even try to stop from kissing him again.

“Love you too, monkey.”

George settles down into his chest again, starts tracing patterns with his fingertip.

“Who called, before?”

So Harry, he doesn’t honestly know. He’d only given a cursory look at his phone before turning back to George, forgot about it entirely. “Uh, I’ll check,” He replies. There’s a high possibility of it being his mother. Even though he’s a senior now and more independent, he knows it’s still A Big Deal that he hasn’t spent Christmas Eve at home - can remember the first year Gemma spent it away all too clearly, how empty the place felt. It wouldn’t surprise him if she’d called simply to check up.

But, picking his phone from the ground, he sees that it’s not.

“‘S Lou.”

George looks up at him, concerned. “You should call him back.”

“No, I -- er -- think he’s mad,” Harry says, bringing up his messages and showing George each text that he’d received the night before. He moves on quickly from the one that simply says ‘Fucken stupid george’, but he doesn’t miss the way that George’s features drop for a moment before he can school them back to normal.

“Call him, yeah? He’ll be more mad if you don’t.” Harry knows that what George says is true, but he doesn’t much want to do it. He can tell that George is hurt, and that seems like far greater a priority. It’s a much better idea, he thinks, to work on changing the topic to something lighter.

“Nah,” His grip tightens minutely around George’s shoulder, holds him as close as possible, “It’s Christmas. I don’t want to fight with him, or ruin the day before we’ve even got out of bed.”

George smiles, all soft-around-the-edges and sleepy, “Would be a shame, that.”

Harry knows that he hadn’t been the best friend, and that he didn’t do right by Louis when he left and still wasn’t doing right by not immediately talking to him now, but he would rather deal with that than not have spent the night with George. It’s not a sudden realisation, or anything. He wants to be with George all the time. He wants to spend every holiday with him. Wants to spend every possible day like this, lazy in bed. Wants to take him out to nice places, defend his honour at parties, never let go and have all their friends comment on how sickening they are. ‘ _You’re a bit fucked, mate_ ’, Niall had told him, and yeah, he even liked the sound of that.

Harry hums in agreement, “It’s a shame we even have to get out of bed, anyway.”

“I know,” George smiles, “Especially since I’m not getting my present until we go to yours.”

Looking up, Harry’s faux-shocked expression meets George’s cheeky one, and all George does is giggle, try to hide his face in Harry’s armpit. “Oh, I knew you just wanted me for my gifts.”

“Yep, all I want is for you to buy me things. Definitely not for good looks or personality.”

Harry rolls them over immediately, so he’s hovering over George. “That’s it,” He says, a growl. He leans down, watching George squirming with anticipation beneath him, and blows a raspberry into his neck.

“Stop! Stop!”

George squeals and falls into peals of laughter, trying to bat Harry away without much true effort; just a hand resting against his shoulder as Harry nibbles at the wet mark on his neck.

Far from traumatising George, he instead tangles his fingers in Harry’s hair, giggles subsiding until he’s left breathing hard.

“Ha-- _Harry_.” And oh, right, that was one of his _places_. The insides of his thighs, the soft skin of his underarms and the entire underside of his arm; those were the places Harry could run his fingers over, the softest of touches, and George would be _gone_. His pupil dilating, breath hitching, back arching _places_. Harry would use it to his advantage on any other day, but it was possibly _not_ the right time. If they were alone, he’d have no qualms continuing. But they weren’t really.

“Sorry, sorry sweetheart,” He pulls back, rolls them over until George is on top. “Not the time.”

“That... That should definitely go on the list of things we need to make time for, you know. All the time.”

“Okay, just let me write that down and I’ll get --”

 _Right back to you_ , he means to say, but he can hardly complain, not when George is pressing him down into the mattress for a kiss.

He can’t complain, either, when George’s mum pulls him into a hug and tells him she kept the kids downstairs as long as she could, or when George tears up, is speechless after finding a gift for everyone in his family under the tree from Harry, even when he has to pull out his best charm for Toni to let George come to his.

It’s not all perfect or smooth. George takes one look at their lunch feast and looks like he’s going to be sick, and the Louis thing is never far from his mind, but even before noon, Harry would say it’s a Top 3 Christmas.

If not the best.

 

* * *

 

“Close your eyes.”

George squints, “What? Harry, it’s Christmas. It’s not even a birthday, it doesn’t need to be a surprise, does it?”

“Please?” Harry’s pouting, just shamelessly pouting and holding his hand. “I want it to be, I want you to be surprised.”

It’s later that night, almost the end of the day. There’s barely been a moment Harry and George haven’t been attached at the hip or mouth or hand, but it’s the first time they’re truly alone, with Anne and Robin gone to visit Gemma. George is, quite frankly, pleased at how events had panned out, almost smugly so; he hadn’t expected that they’d have so much privacy at all, but Harry’s parents had left with a wink and a teasing request not to get into too much trouble and George thought that only happened in _movies_.

So they were alone, and it was amazing. Harry had been amazing all day, had made him giggle and had worn a matching Christmas jumper, had reassured him and had made his mother cry a little bit when he’d started spending time with George’s younger siblings, playing with all their new toys.

And yeah, maybe George could do this for him.

“Fine, fine. My eyes are closed. No peeking. All of that.” He’s grinning, presses his hands over his eyes as an extra measure. Harry’s weight leaves the space next to him on the bed, a kiss pressed to his cheek, and George waits.

“I won’t be a minute, yeah?”

By the time Harry returns, George has counted up to seventy-two, is left feeling nothing but curious and impatient.

“Okay, okay sweetheart, you can look.”

George opens his eyes, and they immediately widen, the comical the size of saucers, he imagines. Harry’s standing against the wall opposite, looking back at him hopefully.

“You... you bought me a guitar?”

He doesn’t know what he’s doing, exactly, but his eyes are trained on the instrument in front of him and before he can stop himself George is standing and making his way over. Glancing up at Harry, as if for permission, his fingers brush delicately over the headstock and tuning pegs as though the entire thing may break or disappear any moment. “You bought me a _Taylor_?”

“Is that okay?” Harry starts. “I know you love the guitar you have now but I know it’s like third or fourth-hand and I wanted you to have one of your own and--and I, you know I have absolutely no idea about guitars like you do, but the guy in the shop said it’s a great one. I took his word for it but if you don’t like it I can take it back and you can --”

George is on him in a second, broken out of his awe enough to jump up into Harry and wrap his arms around his neck, not caring when Harry stumbles back against the wall before he can steady himself.

“Don’t. Be. Stupid.” He says between kisses. _This is amazing_ , he means to say. _I love you, you’re amazing, why would you spend so much money on me? You bought me a **guitar**_. His mouth is far too preoccupied, however. Harry’s arms wind around his waist and lift up him from the floor. George’s legs instinctively curl around him, ankles crossing behind his arse. “I honestly can’t believe you.”

Harry adjusts his grip, shifts and spins them so it’s George pressed back against the wall, insistent in the way he presses their lips together, he nibbles on George’s bottom lip as though he wants to taste him, like all he wants is to make George writhe and beg and moan for the second time that day (chances are, he does).

“You love it?”

“Love it, and love you,” He replies, hand tangling into Harry’s hair. “Kind of hate you, too. You’re amazing.”

“Want you so bad,” Harry mutters. George whines at the loss of contact, arches towards him, but Harry makes no move to reconnect their lips. “Been driving me mad all day, wearing that fucking sweater of mine, god, never stopped wanting to rip it off.”

George is breathing harshly, grasping at the neck of Harry’s own jumper with damp palms, barely able to stop his eyes fluttering closed.

“Don’t-don’t you want your present, too?”

“Later,” Harry kisses him again. “Later’s just fine. Can wait.”

George _mmph_ ’s, opens his mouth to Harry’s tongue and fails miserably to stop himself rutting against him. He can’t even think over the pounding of his own heart, overwhelmed by everything that he’s feeling. Harry _loves him_ enough to buy him a _guitar_ even though his stomach isn’t entirely flat and they don’t like half the same music and Harry’s friends still find him entirely strange, probably.

Harry inspires this feeling inside him, this feeling of both floating and sinking simultaneously, and it’s always so hard to pull himself away from either sensation - both sensations. It’s definitely not the first time that it has happened, and George has yet to figure out whether it’s a sex thing or a Harry thing. There was no way that he’d be able to be as happy with himself as he is without Harry’s help. He hasn’t really been with anybody else to see, but if he’s honest, really, everything is just a Harry thing, it’s not even tempting to try. He had been the person to open George up, let him explore his sexuality. All the previous experience he had begun and ended with drunken handjobs with Josh, fumbling and verging on disastrous.

With Harry, though, it’s different. One touch and he’s just _gone_. Every touch leaves a searing mark against his skin, every kiss leaves him panting and shattered and needy. Sometimes it feels as though his entire world depends on how well Harry can take him apart.

“I want to fuck you right here, against this wall,” Harry tells him, voice gravelly. He slips a hand down between George and the wall, down into George’s underwear and teases between his cheeks. “You want that, Georgie? You want here or bed?”

“Here,” George replies immediately. “Here, please.”

“Gonna have to set you down to get our kits off, yeah? Gonna need you to stand for me.” Readily complying, George untangles his legs from around Harry, drops to the floor. He’s eager, grins up at Harry and decides that the first plan of attack is to get rid of Harry’s jumper and shirt. They’ve definitely got to be the first to go, they’re in his way. He wants to touch every bit of skin he can and they’re so heavily in the way.

Grabbing both the hems at once, George lifts them up in one swift movement. It’s all the warning Harry gets, but he lifts up his arms all the same and allows George to pull them over his head.

When they’re discarded, thrown haphazardly across the room, Harry slows them down. He boxes George in against the wall again with one hand beside his head and the other on his waist.

“Taking charge, hey? Love when you get pushy, sweetheart.”

George grins. “We wouldn’t be getting anywhere right now if I didn’t.” He reaches down, undoes the button and zip of his own jeans before Harry pushes his hands away, slips his own underneath George’s shirt. It’s not immediately pulled off, rather Harry leaves his hands where they are, fingers brushing tentatively over skin.

“So much trouble, you are. Always giving me lip, always cheeky.”

He pulls off George’s shirt, and George hasn’t even bought his arms down before Harry’s pressing their lips together, licking over his bottom lip for permission. Clothes are shed far more quickly after that, punctuated with touches and lazy kisses, George’s giggles and gentle teasing that they’d be getting absolutely no where without him just for the extra determination it seemed to give Harry.

But then he’s stepping out of his underwear, and they’re completely starkers. The mood is a lot heavier than a moment ago; anticipation and eagerness and _want_ filling the air between them, and George has never been a patient person.

But Harry keeps his hands pressed up above his head, rolls their cocks together slowly and doesn’t let George jump three steps again.

“H-Harry, please.” He presses himself forward for friction, spreads his legs in the least subtle manner he possibly could, bites his lip because the whines trying to escape him are quite frankly _embarrassing_ when Harry’s hands haven’t gravitated anywhere close to his prick.

Harry studies it all, smirks. “You think you deserve it? Going stop with the cheek?” He hasn’t stopped grinning, slips a thigh between George’s legs just to force out the noises he wants. They’re immediately pulled out of George as though he’s been winded, a gush of breath and moan.

“That’s it babe, sounds gorgeous. ‘S what I want to hear. Keep your hands up there for me, will you, love?”

Harry lets go, and George does. He keeps his arms right where they are, right where Harry wants them.

He feels a tap on the inside of his thigh, and spreads his legs further, knows it’s enough when Harry’s hand travels up further. He ignores George’s cock entirely despite how much he must know George _wants_ it; all George feels is a finger rubbing over his hole. It dips in briefly as though testing the resistance before it leaves him entirely, but it’s enough to draw out a gasp.

“Turn around for me, yeah, Georgie?”

George turns, leans up against the wall on folded arms, arse out and legs spread. It must have been what Harry wanted; he hums his approval, soothes a hand up and down his thigh. He hadn’t realised that Harry was knelt behind him, but then soft lips land on his cheek and George knows what that means pretty well.

“H-Harry?”

“Mmm?” Harry’s nibbling and sucking, creating a love bite over the same place he kissed, hands holding him in steadily place.

George sucks in a breath, tries so hard to stop pushing back onto Harry’s mouth. “Are you... are you gonna ...?”

“Do you want that?”

“Y-yeah. Yeah, please.”

There’s a nip, extra hard, right where Harry’s been marking, but he licks right over it, presses a kiss there before moving off. George tries to turn and look over his shoulder, knows Harry’s admiring his work, the same smug way he always does, but he can hardly keep his eyes open over the feeling of worn and calloused hands all over him. They make a path from the backs of his knees, right up the insides of his thighs and around to his hip bones again, a trail of goosebumps left in their wake.

“That’s it, just stay there.”

He doesn’t even bother spreading George out, just nudges his nose between his cheeks, tongue licking forward in a large swipe and George promptly feels all his bones just melt away. Harry licks into him without hesitation, tongue making circles and patterns over his rim, making him wet all over until George feels slick and damp and can’t help but push back for more.

In the back of his mind, somewhere, George knows that he’s being loud. His mouth is open and panting and he knows that noises are being almost forced out of him, but there’s a ringing in his ears and he can’t make out anything other than Harry’s mouth on his skin.

“Oh, _oh_ my god, Harry.”

George twists, strains his neck to be able to look over his shoulder. He watches as Harry pulls away, licking his lips as he squeezes both the cheeks in front of him and pries them apart.

“Look at you, babe,” Harry soothes. “Look at you, you love this, don’t you?”

George nods as best he can and shudders at the feeling of Harry’s breath ghosting over him. Can’t say anything else, can’t find the words. He feels so exposed with Harry behind him, being able to touch and feel and look at him so intimately, but he trusts the other boy to look after him; knows he’d only take advantage of the position in ways George thoroughly approved of; knows he’d never take advantage of _George_ , or his trust. No one knew George better, not like this, knew his kinks and his places and the things that instantaneously turned him off. Harry can read him like a book, and he had never felt more at ease with anyone who could break him so easily.

It’s only a moment before Harry dives back in, mouthing sloppy kisses all over him and rubbing a finger through the thick layer of saliva that’s coating his skin. He teases the finger over George’s entrance, catching but not following through.

“Please, please please, Harry,” He begs, pushes back impatiently. “Fingers, please.”

Harry chuckles, but doesn’t hesitate any longer. He pushes in slowly, steadily. George opens to him immediately, and there’s no pausing or stuttering until Harry’s long finger is buried all the way inside him. His breath leaves him in a solid, audible _whoosh_ of relief. All his nerves feel as though they’re alight, but Harry’s barely done anything. George closes his eyes, reaches around blindly to grasp a fistful of Harry’s hair as though it could somehow anchor him, keep him out of his own head and allow him to continue to focus on Harry.

“How’s that? Feel okay?” Harry rests his cheek against George’s hip, looks up at him as he asks.

“Yes, yeah, god, you can move.”

Harry grins, tilts his head to kiss at George’s skin before focusing. He twists his finger out gently, the tip just barely inside, before plunging back in. George can feel Harry’s tongue licking around the rim; almost entirely where George is clenching sporadically around his finger. The combination of soft tongue and pointed finger makes it even more difficult for George to stop himself just sinking to the floor.

Knowing it is really no use anymore, George gives up on trying to watch Harry work. He lets go of his hold on Harry’s hair -- ignoring his muffled protest -- and folds his arms, rests his forehead against them. The movement starts to pick up, Harry deliberately moving his finger in and out, twisting and curling and teasing but it’s _not enough_.

“More,” George insists. “More, please, just -- not enough.”

“Another?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Harry pulls out almost entirely before slipping another finger in, along with the first. George can’t stay silent at the feeling; Harry’s moving purposefully now, scissoring and stretching in preparation rather than simple foreplay. It’s all the same, really, feels just as good, if not better; heightened. There’s _fingers_ and _tongue_ and he’s practically panting, pushing back insistently. He wants everything, wants to take everything Harry will give him.

“Please, can you -- another, please.” Harry pauses his movements.

“You sure, Georgie? Don’t want to push without lube.”

George doesn’t understand. Doesn’t understand what’s wrong with either scenario. If they kept going without lube, it would be so much more intense to feel even more inside him; if Harry grabbed lube, he’d be stretched and ready to fuck quicker. He _wants_ Harry, he can’t comprehend much beyond that.

“Let’s go to bed, do this proper.” Harry decides for him, and it’s not something George could protest, only a soft whine when he’s suddenly empty and Harry is standing, crowding him from behind.

“Drive me absolutely crazy, you do,” He continues, almost a growl, but George doesn’t think it’s meant to be such a bad thing. He’s kind of proud, actually.

“Good crazy, or bad crazy?” Harry snorts.

“Do you even have to ask?” He murmurs right into George’s ear, nibbling into the soft shell. “C’mon, to bed.”

George readily complies, turning in Harry’s arms to grab each of his hands in his own. He grins up at him, leads him back towards the bed and doesn’t stop until he’s falling back onto it. He’s always eager when it’s like this -- when it’s just him and Harry, and when Harry’s stopped playing around to start really giving George what he wants -- but it’s Christmas, and they’ve spent the whole day together and it feels like _something_. There’s something itching beneath George’s skin, a buzzing that seems to have no purpose other than to remind him how close they are; how close he wants them to be right now.

They work on the same wavelength, he’s found, though. He shuffles back onto the bed while Harry crawls over him; he parts his legs and Harry seamlessly slips between them, pushing them up until George’s feet are flat against the bed; he gropes the bedside table drawer for lube, and Harry’s already grasping it, drizzling it over his fingers. The few moments it’s taken them to move to the bed are cohesive, and by the time Harry’s fingers are easing inside George again their mouths are connected.

It’s different, now -- far smoother and more deliberate. Harry’s fingers scissor and stretch easily and it’s entirely different now that Harry’s touch is all over him.When all the sensations had been confined to one area it was easily overpowering, but now it felt far less like a sprint towards the finish. George felt stimulated from his prick to the tips of his fingers. He wasn’t being driven mad by want -- he just _wanted_.

“Gonna go three,” Harry tells him, rubs a big hand over his hip and gives him a moment, as though George would want to say anything against it. He doesn’t - wouldn’t - and Harry presses kiss after kiss to his neck and jaw, works another finger into him.

He’s almost glad that Harry’s taken a moment from kissing him, doesn’t think he could keep up. The stretch is never any less impressive and George’s mouth is slack, eyes closed. It’s _so much_ but it’s not enough and it’s so good, he’s moving back on Harry’s fingers, rolling his hips down in an effort to push them even deeper.

“Wish I was patient enough for just this.” Harry marvels. “To just give you my fingers and nothing else, see if you can come just from that.”

 _Yes_ , George thinks. Yes, he wants that. He could do it, if he tried. If Harry angled his fingers a bit more and if he could just get a bit of leverage to move how he wanted, George could do it more easily than Harry probably suspected. He could definitely work himself over the edge on Harry’s fingers alone.

George must nod, or something equivalent, because Harry is shaking his head. “Not today, Georgie, not today. Want you too badly.”

He pushes his fingers in, twists perfectly. George is arching his neck, spreading his legs further as though it could do anything at this point.

“C’mon, please, ‘s enough. I’m so ready.”

“Are you, love, you ready?” Harry’s lifting up, kneeling back on his haunches between George’s legs and that is exactly the _opposite_ of what George wants. He wants Harry closer, he wants him all over so badly that he almost misses the condom packet between his fingers.

Of course Harry had been smart enough to grab one out with the lube. George hadn’t even thought, mind too deep in haze.

“Yeah, yeah, god.”

George watches with hooded eyes, rapt, as Harry rolls the condom down over his cock, slicks it up with one, two pumps of his fist. His own cock jumps at the sight and George thinks he should probably start a list of his own, of things he wants to do, starting with _watch Harry tug himself off_.

A hand rubs up the inside of his thigh, pushing at it until it’s just where Harry needs it to be, and then he’s lining himself up against George.

It’s one slow glide, from pushing in until Harry’s fully seated inside him, but George feels every moment. It all feels like a relief, feels like so much -- the initial burn to the pulsing heat of Harry’s length. It’s overwhelming, despite how entirely familiar it is.

Looking down, trying to catch Harry’s eyes, George sees him instead looking down at where they’re joined, a subtle tremor running through his body.

“Hey.”

It’s soft, but Harry catches it, looks up at him.

George holds out an arm, doesn’t say anything further but offers a gentle smile. That’s all it takes for Harry to stop holding himself up, let himself fall into George’s arms.

Harry’s selfless; the most selfless person George knows. He doesn’t like to make any situation about himself, prefers to focus on other people and make them feel wanted. No one else has ever gone out of their way to make George feel as special as he does when Harry’s around. He makes George feel as though all the ridiculous things that he says are important, even when it’s all really just stupid and redundant. He looks after him, tries to give George everything he wants - dotes on him, practically.

It gets to the point, sometimes, where George has to stop him, has to remind Harry that he knows he has needs, too, and that George wants to take care of them. Harry just doesn’t look after himself. He’s never really liked to take or ask, even when it’s just _George_. Even when it’s something he can handle. It’s something he _wants_ to handle.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” He breathes, wrapping both arms around Harry’s torso. “Feels so good, . You’re okay, yeah?”

Harry nods, breaths into his skin, peppers kisses there.

“Mhmm. Yeah, God, you’re so much.”

“Huh?” George is rubbing Harry’s back, between his shoulder blades, but he has a moment of panic himself. He doesn’t know if ‘so much’ is a good thing, wonders if Harry’s having second thoughts.

He knows he shouldn’t, though. Even if George is loud and buzzing with energy and all-together childish, Harry has never cared about that, loves him regardless. There is absolutely nothing for George to worry about, and yet his first instinct is still to raise up some kind of shield around himself in preparation of hurt and of abandonment.

George has never let anybody see every part of him, not until Harry. George trusts him; he laughs at George’s stupid jokes and doesn’t think he’s being an idiot when he wears his onesie. He loves that George gets on with his family and never takes his hands off George, even when they’re out, like he’s something worth showing off. Harry loves him, but he’s seen George at his absolute worst, when he’s crying and struggling for breath over _food_ and when he curls himself up and tries to reduce himself to nothing because people can be nasty. Harry’s seen it _all_ , and he has yet to run or react in any way other than to wrap him up in his arms and tell George all the ways he’s wonderful.

George knows, he _knows_ he worries for nothing. But it’s too deep set, from back when George had no one, when he didn’t think anybody would want to stick around the girly-looking chubby kid. Simple phrases like ‘you’re so much’ trigger the same horrible doubts that Harry has been able to fend away almost entirely, even before George asks him to continue and explain what he really means.

But George is done worrying that the next time is going to be the time Harry finally tells him to get lost. That’s not a concern, anymore. It doesn’t mean, though, that the relief and surprise every time it _doesn’t_ happen isn’t welcomed.

“Just -- look at you. You’re amazing. You’re all flushed up and moaning with my cock inside you and yet you still stop just because you’re worried about me.”

George catches Harry’s eye, has to actively try not to respond by urging things on again, can’t help but beam up at him, though. “But you’re okay?”

Harry just laughs. “Yeah, babe. Wasn’t anything so bad.”

“Oh? No?” Harry gives a gentle, experimental thrust and watches for George’s reaction. He stares down at his expression as George shifts, lets out a muffled moan. It’s extremely difficult to ignore even the smallest movement; he has to fight in order to stop from arching up, and Harry knows it. He’s smirking, as smug as ever, and George can only grin back and try not to squirm. His focus is shifted with the reminder.

“No, babe. Just worried I’d cum straight away like a little boy.”

“It -- it’d be a real shame,” He chokes out, grinning.

“Extremely counter-productive.”

George is giggling again, still breathing heavily. He buries a hand in Harry’s hair and hooks both legs around his waist. He feels lighter already, sharp internal panic subsiding into a far nicer, far calmer haze of happiness.

“But now?” He asks, grasping one of Harry’s arms tightly with the hand not tangled in curls.

“ _Now_ , if it’s alright with you, I’d definitely like to get back to where we were.” Harry pushes himself back up to hover over George, with one hand beside his head. His other hand roams down George’s entire body, creating a trail of goosebumps in its wake that George couldn’t ignore if he tried. A shiver follows immediately, although he feels hot all over, just itching with anticipation.

“Yeah, yeah, I could definitely be alright with that. I want that.”

“Good,” Harry says. He sits up again, and the leverage that the new position gives him draws a low groan straight out of George. His legs have unhooked from around Harry, splay either side of him, but he keeps them anchored together with a big, steady hand on George’s waist. Harry’s thighs act like a cushion beneath him, keep his lower half angled up off the bed and it feels _delicious_ , toe curling.

George can’t wait. He’s been _so good_. He knows he’s been good, he’s been patient. But it feels -- _God_ , it’s exactly what he wanted and he can’t stop from fucking himself back onto Harry’s cock.

It’s a strange angle to work with, and he can’t really pick up the rhythm or pace that he wants without Harry’s help. The slow burn and drag of his effort is great, a start, but George can feel the heat of Harry’s skin everywhere that they are touching, and his hands feel like weights on his hips; feel like a promise.

Biting his lip in the midst of concentration, George looks up to find Harry staring hungrily back at him. His eyes are blown, almost entirely black, and nostrils flared. It’s a good sign, George knows from experience.

He opens his mouth, means to say something to get Harry fired up, but all that comes out is an unintelligible whine. It’s all he can manage, because Harry’s pulling and driving forward in one fast, deliberate movement.

All George’s breath, all his words are knocked right out of him in one pure, loud moan. He throws his head back, arches up even further off the bed in order to try to push himself solidly into Harry’s lap.

It’s the last thing he needs to do, apparently, as Harry has given up all the effort that he’d put into holding back. Firm hands on his waist hold George steady while Harry thrusts into him -- he sets a deliberate, sure pace that is completely overwhelming, already entirely worth the long foreplay. He feels slick, but not so stretched that Harry’s girth doesn’t feel as huge inside him as ever. It’s perfect, just what he wanted -- the burn, feeling so full, and the almost explosive pleasure every time Harry makes contact with his prostate.

George’s fists grasp around the sheets, clenching and unclenching intermittently, eyes fluttering,mouth open and gasping. He can’t even control it, can’t focus on anything but the sensations he feels all over and the beginnings of marks on either of his hips keeping him centered.

It shouldn’t come as such a shock to feel one of Harry’s hands wrap around his length, but not having realised that Harry had even let go of his waist, George jerks and moans, almost pitches forward to curl into himself.

“ _Harry_ ,” He says, with what feels like the last breath left in his lungs, feels like he’s been punched in the gut.

Before he’s able to center himself, catch his breath, Harry’s leaning down. He supports himself with a hand beside George’s head, not dropping all his weight down onto him even though George knows he would be fine. Their open mouths slot together messily, but that’s all it is. Nothing complicated, nothing at all, really. They’re both far too preoccupied for anything more than a press of lips together, with Harry still driving in and out of George, trying (and mostly failing) to maintain a rhythm with the grip around his cock. It’s clumsy and irregular, like Harry’s doing too many things at once and can only keep half the amount of control over each of his actions.

George can barely tell, though, can barely focus on what’s happening. All he can do is wrap his arms around Harry’s neck and cling.

“Listen to you, Georgie,” Harry pants against him. “So loud. And you don’t even know it, do you?”

George whines, tries to push himself up into Harry’s fist. Okay, yeah, maybe he _is_ being loud, but his vocals are the last thing he has control over, at this point. It’s _so hard_ to think about anything other than Harry inside him. George’s whole world has narrowed down to that feeling, and _Harry_ , overpowering every single one of his senses.

It’s an unnatural, amazing feeling, he’d say, being stretched so wide. It’s just a constant pleasure that George had never honestly expected before he and Harry had had sex, he’d been inexperienced and scared and never thought he would enjoy it as much as he did. All he’d known was that he loved Harry, that he wanted him and that it couldn’t be so bad.

Here he was, so much later, craving it harder and deeper and faster; barely able to think of anything else.

“Don’t even care, do you?” Harry says, and he sounds amazed. “You’re not even paying attention to anything else.”

George is biting his lip. He’s trying almost desperately not to cry out just from Harry’s words alone, but he tries to answer anyway, huffs out through his teeth and shakes his head. His wide eyes meet Harry’s, and it’s okay; reassuring. It’s instantly so easy to allow his face to open up into a smile, giggles erupting from him without warning because he is happy. There’s no point in hiding it.

“Don’t -- don’t you get cocky about it now, Styles.”

Harry laughs easily, as though he was just waiting for George to get there first. His movement slows down, rhythm coming to a roll of his hips, accentuating the long drag out. George hums, grins.

“It’s hard not to at this point, love. You’re all the reason I need, looking like that.”

It’s so nice, Harry’s so nice, but George’s eyes flutter closed as Harry flicks a thumb over his head, and he’s so sure that it was a - playful - deliberate move to set him off track, and _no_ , he’s not having any of that.

It’s as hard as trying to roll himself out of bed of a morning, but George manages to untangle his arms from around Harry’s neck. He makes a great effort to shove at Harry’s chest, pushing him up and off him until he’s sitting upright, looking lost.

“Georgie, wha -- ”

George doesn’t give him a chance to finish, clambering into his lap, grinding his leaking cock against Harry’s.

“‘s long as you’re only cocky for me,” He says right into Harry’s ear, voice soft and low and teasing. Harry shivers, lets out a moan of his own.

“Of course. God, not even close. Wouldn’t even think about -- uh -- being cocky, to anyone else.”

“I know,” George says, grinning, and he does know. Harry, _his_ Harry, is loyal, is lovely, wouldn’t ever intentionally hurt anyone or anything without reason, and George is so sure of that. “Know you’re mine.”

Steadying himself with Harry’s shoulders, George lifts himself up. One hand clasped onto Harry, he reaches down with the other to grab his cock, guide it to his entrance. A flick of his eyes up to Harry’s tells George that he’s definitely doing alright.

He’s trembling softly at the effort, but all George feels is relief, a warmth washing over him as he sinks down. His eyes are closed, lips bitten raw. When he’s fully seated, he has to stop, pause, so glad that Harry is inside him again. It’s fantastic, when they can take their time and have no reason to hold back. They’ve gotten used to having to restrain themselves, George thinks. Too many nights trying to stay hushed with parents just down the hall, or hurrying what little time they have before being interrupted. It makes George want to slow things down as much as possible, relish every movement and sound and feeling.

But that would require patience, is the thing, and George is so wound up, doesn’t have much of that left.

Instead, he rolls his hips just once, experimentally, wraps both his arms around Harry’s neck and buries his fingers into the sparse hairs there. George is happy, so happy, smiling where his face is pressed into the side of Harry’s curls.

He needs to move, though, can’t stay still any longer. With a breath, he moves away, slides his hands to Harry’s shoulders for leverage. He can’t see where they’re joined, but George doesn’t stop looking down or biting his lip, concentrating on the roll and lift of his hips, the slap of skin on skin and the constant weight of Harry’s hands on his waist.

Everything is second nature after so long. Their moans and whimpers and ‘oh’s’ echo one another; they both know how to move, what to do, where each other’s places are without exploration. It’s not a new thing, the familiarity with each other and each other’s bodies. They have mapped each other out, can recognise every spot and bump and crinkle of skin.

Harry’s breathing harshly, using his grip on George’s waist to guide him up and down, moving his hips shallowly with as much co-ordination as he can to meet George’s. They work together, pressed as close as possible and keeping their movements in time. George feels taller, straddling him like this, gains a couple of inches where normally he’s _just_ smaller. It’s not often he has to lean down in order to kiss Harry, but he likes it, definitely takes advantage of the opportunity.

“I’m so close,” George breathes, lips brushing against Harry’s. He can feel it bubbling and growing inside him, doesn’t want to delay it any longer. A sharper, deeper thrust is the only response he receives from Harry, and it only encourages him to wrap one of his own hands around his cock and start pumping.

It’s enough, definitely, enough to drive him crazy without anything else. He’s fucking himself down onto Harry, and then up into his fist, and it’s everything he’d need. But Harry surprises him and takes it further, of course he does. One of his hands joins George’s, knocks George’s breath right out of his chest. The grip is perfect, tight enough that their fingers slot together, fill in all each other’s in-between spaces. Their hands easily work together, in time with the rhythm of thrusts they’ve settled into.

Harry means business now, George can tell. He’s picked up a rapid pace, twisting his hand around the head and making sure to swipe over the slit, tilting the angle of his hips and pulling out all the tricks he knew that drove George absolutely crazy. Enough that his breath comes out in huffs and his eyes are shut viciously tight and he can barely hear the _filth_ Harry’s muttering into his ear because everything’s so clouded by what he feels.

“C’mon, open up, babe. Look at me, yeah?”

George does, he tries -- flutters his eyes open, still heavy-lidded, to look at Harry. He looks amazing, just as gone and just as ruined as George does, he imagines. Exertion is written all across his features, just how much he wants them both to feel good, and it hits George like a bolt of lightning right down his spine.

“Harry, I --” He says, but it’s too late for a warning, George’s orgasm hits him and he’s arching his back, allowing his mouth to drop open and cumming all over his and Harry’s joined hands.

“That’s it, that’s it babe,” Harry coaxes him. “So good, that’s it, you’re so gorgeous.”

George’s body is entirely lax, and he slumps down when the after-effects of his climax start to dissipate, tucking his head into Harry’s shoulder. His own hand slows and loosens, but Harry works him through it, keeps pumping him while George keeps rocking himself down in small movements.

“You want to keep going?” George asks, panting. He pulls back, tries to relax and stop clenching around Harry long enough to catch his breath. Doesn’t want to make it uncomfortable for either of them. “Or do you want my mouth?”

The look on Harry’s face is definitely enough to tell George that, yes, yes he does, but he waits. He wants to hear Harry say it just _because_.

“Yeah, yeah, god,” He replies, without much hesitation. “Yeah, can you --”

He doesn’t say anymore, he doesn’t have to, because George is on it, he _wants to_.

Biting his lip as he eases himself up and off Harry’s dick as gently as he can, George can’t do anything but groan at the sensation of being empty.

He slinks, or rather, crawls down Harry’s body with what little grace he possesses until he’s lying on his belly, snug between Harry’s legs with enough leverage to do what he wants, really. Harry’s got his hand up to his mouth, licking and sucking off George’s cum and that’s... that’s definitely something to think about, makes him whine, but it’s not something he can let distract him. His first, easiest matter is to extricate Harry from the condom. There’s a grin spread across his face, and Harry definitely knows what’s coming, but George is sure that definitely doesn’t change how it feels when he wraps his lips around Harry, takes him all the way down in one go. His eyes flick up quickly to check on Harry, sees his mouth open in a silent gasp. It’s a good sign, all he needs, so he pulls back off.

Harry’s looking down at him in awe, and it makes George entirely happy. Gives him a little more incentive to stick out his tongue when he opens his mouth, stretched out condom sitting there.

“You really should be illegal,” Harry mutters, like there’s no voice left inside him, as George ties it and drops it beside the bed.

Harry’s planted his hands behind him, groping at the sheets as though it’ll be able to help anchor him, help him control himself. If George has anything to do about it, it’ll be an utterly useless gesture. This is where George can be smug, where he _knows_ he’s good, has tricks up his sleeve. He’s nothing if not absolutely determined to show how good he is. Because he is, he’s so good at this.

Looking up at Harry, George can’t help but think what _he_ must look like. He can feel tears clinging to his lashes, lips red raw, and he doesn’t even want to think about the state of his hair, but he doesn’t care. He looks up at Harry, disheveled and honestly a mess, but it’s gorgeous and it’s all for George - because of George, even.

And Harry always thinks he’s gorgeous.

He bats his lashes, pushes his nose into the crease of Harry’s hip, tries to contain the moan that’s threatening to spill out over just the thought of what he’s going to do.

One of Harry’s hands settles gently in his hair, brushes through to give him some comfort, but George is just fine. He pushes back into Harry’s hand, anyway, ‘mmm’s’ in the back of his throat at the feeling.

“Y’alright, love?”

All George can do is nod, start pressing wet kisses over Harry’s hip and all down his shaft until he reaches the tip. He presses a longer, lingering kiss there, tongue darting out to flick across the slit, as though Harry’s cock was his mouth and George was trying to lick deep into it. Precum spurts onto his tongue, and he happily swallows it down before engulfing the head with his plumped up lips and sucking.

“Christ,” Harry groans. “You know - this isn’t going to last long, right?”

George looks up, and he hopes Harry can see the smirk on his face as he sinks down, down, down in response, until he can feel Harry in his throat. He can feel the weight of Harry on his tongue, taste him so clearly. All it really does is spur him on, try to swirl his tongue around what little room he can find to do so, drawing a moan right out of Harry.

He moans too, really, a muffled ‘mmhf’ that vibrates right around Harry’s prick. The hand in George’s hair tightens almost painfully, and Harry’s hips thrust up off the bed, pushing him further into the heat of George’s mouth. He doesn’t even try to pull off or push Harry back away, knowing he can take it. He just relaxes his throat, closes his eyes and starts to bob his head.

“ _George_.”

George looks up to Harry, a line of spit dribbling out down Harry’s prick, and gives a particularly strong suck before sliding down further, lips so close to the base of Harry’s cock that he wants to push that last inch, just to do it again.

“Should be _illegal_ , god. Absolutely illegal. Look perfect right now, look like you’re so comfortable, swallowing down my cock like it’s nothing. Is it nothing?”

Despite how difficult it is, George shakes his head, determined to let Harry know that _no, it isn’t nothing_. Harry’s cock isn’t nothing. It’s big and lovely and heavy on his tongue, and it’s definitely not nothing to take Harry so deep - Harry will probably hear that after, when his throat is used and rubbed dry. He’ll be able to hear that and know that it is something.

He just likes this, is the thing. Likes the way he can give this to Harry, make him feel so good by doing something that _he_ loves.

“No, that’s not it, is it?” Harry continues, carding his hand through George’s hair as he continues moving over Harry. “You’re just so good, aren’t you? Always been so good at this. I think about it all the time, every night. Think about how good you are with your mouth and I can’t believe I’m so lucky, that this is just for me.”

George knows what Harry babble means - that he’s so close that he wants to prolong the inevitable, and _no_ , that definitely won’t do at all.

As nice as Harry babble is.

Taking a breath through his nose, George pushes himself down as far as possible, until his nose is tickling against skin. He pauses, then, only moves to run his hands up the back of Harry’s thighs to urge him on, looks up expectantly.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry utters, apparently having caught on, and good, George thinks.

Harry doesn’t move, though, just looks down at him, mouth open, hand clenching and unclenching in his hair, and George wants so much more than that. He’s determined, at this point, to make it happen

He pulls off Harry’s length, places kisses right down the shaft, nuzzles at the base. He breathes heavily against Harry’s skin, makes him shift under him at the sensation.

“Please, Harry, please,” George asks, and his voice is already beginning to rasp. “You can, you know. I want it. Want you to fuck my mouth.”

Harry’s cock jumps, and there’s definitely interest there. He huffs out a shaky breath, runs a hand over his face and through his own hair despairingly before returning it right to George’s.

“You’re going to be the _absolute_ death of me, fuck, you can’t just -”

The look on Harry’s face makes him feel like he’s glowing, or he could glow if he wanted to. George giggles into Harry’s skin, and he’s so happy even if Harry hasn’t done anything yet. He loves this so much, loves that he’s right where he wants to be and it’s Christmas and all he has to do is focus on being good for Harry, making him happy.

“Can’t just say things like that, knowing it’ll drive me crazy.”

“Well, what’re you going to do about it?” George grins, mouths gently at Harry’s cock with the plump of his lips, right up his length until the head is sitting shallowly on his tongue.

“ _Christ_ ,” Harry mutters, and the hand on the back of George’s head flexes, spreads out and grips into his hair.

It’s worked, his pleading. Harry’s far less reluctant now, holding George steady as his hips push up in small movements, seemingly testing his boundaries. He becomes more confident quickly, with George’s hands running up and down his sides encouragingly, though, huffs out a breath and builds up to plunging in and out of George’s mouth, more desperate to chase his release.

George is good at this, has practice enough to know how to regulate breathing through his nose, how to relax and open up his throat, how to work through it. So while Harry thrusts in, pushes himself down George’s throat, George takes it. He allows his eyes to water with it, allows his spit to coat Harry’s cock and down his face.

He gags once, pulls off to take a breath before going down, letting Harry’s hand guide him again. Without resistance, he goes right back until his lips are at the base, nose pressed into hair. There’s a great sense of achievement that swells in George’s chest whenever he reaches so far. Harry’s entire length is in his mouth, and it’s... it’s so much, and so good. He pulls out, and pushes back in, pulls out, and pushes back in, and George stays there, right in place and allows Harry to use his mouth.

“I’m so close, Georgie, you’re amazing,” Harry says, and it doesn’t take long. He was already close when George came, so it isn’t too big a surprise at all that he’s nearly there. He grabs at George’s hair, tugs softly to pull him back so his cock rests on George’s tongue. “You look so good, so gorgeous like that and your mouth is just - I’m gonna - ”

All over Harry’s body, George can feel trembling, skin pulled taut, and he knows Harry’s about to cum. He sucks, then, hollows his cheeks and swirls his tongue and that’s it. Harry’s release shoot out in long spurts, coats George’s tongue and his mouth. The hand in his hair goes lax, and he can feel all Harry’s bones crumple underneath him, arms giving in to drop his weight onto the mattress, loud moan leaving him.

George swallows what he can around Harry, save for a small amount of cum that dribbles out into the layer of saliva already collected on his chin, before pulling off completely.

His hand takes the place of his mouth and works Harry through it, just gentle tugs while he watches the way Harry’s chest rises and falls. The same reason he’s so captivating now is the same reason George has so much trouble watching him play soccer. He’s gorgeous, looks like he’s just run a marathon, and it’s so hard not to just crawl up and kiss him while he’s coming down, George has to work to stop himself.

Instead, because he knows neither of them will get around to it if he doesn’t now, George stands up to go grab a flannel.

“No, hey, stay,” Harry mumbles, watching him intently, and George can’t help it at all when he walks around, further up the bed to give him a chaste kiss.

“See, see all that?” He grins, poking a finger through the mess that’s transfered to Harry’s skin from his. “It’s gross, and ‘m just gonna grab a washcloth and fix us up.”

Harry still grumbles, something about not caring, but George goes anyway. It doesn’t take long for him to run some water over the towel and bring it back, and Harry’s only moved to lay with his head on the pillows, still starkers on top of the sheets.

A giggle escapes George, though he tries to muffle it by wiping over his face. He gives his whole body a quick, thorough cleanse before dropping onto the bed beside Harry, wiping him down, too.

“Hey, hey. That’s ‘nough of that,” He says, grabbing the cloth from George and tossing it across the room. “C’mere, want cuddles now.”

George can hardly complain about that.

He moves until he’s on top of Harry, legs tangling, arms folded over his chest to lay his chin on, and Harry’s arms instantly wrap around him, soothing all over.

“Hey you.”

Dipping himself forward for a kiss, it takes George a little while to reply - far too preoccupied with Harry’s mouth, making up for not kissing him before - but when he pulls back he grins, “Hey.”

For a moment it’s quiet, while they survey each other, take in the damage. George imagines he looks about as wrecked as he feels, and he’s quietly pleased that Harry doesn’t look any better.

“Y’alright?”

George nods, “Amazing, actually, amazing, I’d say.”

“Sounds a little croaky, sweetheart,” Harry tells him. He unravels an arm from around George, brings a thumb up to brush over his lips, and George can feel they’re just as raw as his throat. There’s very little he can do but open his mouth and nip at it bluntly, catch Harry’s finger between his teeth.

“Gonna be worse tomorrow, you know.” He can already feel it in his throat, more than just a tickle. “You’ll definitely hear it then.”

Harry hums, tightens the arm still snaked around George’s waist. “I can hear it now, don’t really have to wait. Do you want some water?”

It’d help, George knows that, but he doesn’t want it, really. He doesn’t want either of them to move from where they are now that he’s settled and comfortable. A sore throat won’t last forever, he can cope with that.

“No, it’s alright.”

Harry’s thumb starts rubbing at the small of his back, so gentle, and it feels so nice. George’s eyes close appreciatively .

“Okay. Let me know if you do, okay?”

George just nods, and Harry’s hand - oh, the one he bit - reaches up to brush his fringe away from his forehead, keeps brushing down over his cheekbone and the apple of his cheek. His own bare foot is rubbing against Harry’s, and he barely notices these things start to happen. It’s normal, now, to have a hand constantly buried in Harry’s curls or tucked into one of his back pockets; it’s normal to have one of Harry’s slipped under his shirt, to have his face tucked into George’s shoulder.

“So I should be illegal, huh?” He says, opens his eyes and grins down.

Harry’s cheeks colour a little, bless him, but he laughs it off, nods. “Absolutely, with a mouth like that.”

“What does that make you, then?” George asks, tilts his head in question.

It takes Harry a little while to think it over. He studies George, brows furrowed, and George knows he’s really up in his head. “A criminal, I guess.”

George immediately drops his head down onto his forearms and groans. His shoulders shake with giggles, and _he_ feels extremely ridiculous on Harry’s behalf. He says things sometimes, means them so genuinely, but ends up sounding as though he’s reading cut lines from Robert Pattinson’s Twilight script.

There’s a little explosion of love going off inside George, though, so it’s not _so_ bad, really. Embarrassing but entirely endearing, which tends to sum up about half of everything that Harry does.

“ _Hey_ ,” He protests, running both hands down George’s sides.

“That was the worst thing I’ve ever heard you say, babe.”

Harry frowns, though, pouts up at him pathetically and, well, George has always been a little bit soft, where Harry is concerned.

“... It was a little bit sweet, though.”

“Just a little bit?”

“Just a little bit.”

Harry kisses him, pulls him right down to press their lips together. It’s rare that they’re not all over each other, after they’ve had sex, and this is no different.

“Love you,” Harry murmurs.

“Love you, too,” George melts right into him, presses kisses to his lips and jaw and chin while Harry smiles at him lazily, runs his hands all over George - up his shoulder blades, down his back and over his arse.

“Hey, hands off, Styles,” He says, and yeah, he can definitely feel the thick rasp of his throat. Harry doesn’t move his hands at all, instead schools a look of shock onto his face, and George can pick up his terrible acting a mile away. He grins, though, doesn’t actually mind at all.

“This is entirely innocent cuddling, I’ll have you know.” Harry’s reply is mischievous, and George can definitely play along with that.

“There’s always intent with you,” He giggles, bops into Harry’s head with his own. Harry retaliates, tightens his arms around George and rolls them both over. All George can really do is shriek with laughter when Harry starts sucking, licking at his neck, growling in the back of his throat. “You’re insatiable, _absolutely_ ridiculous.”

George is so happy, though, wraps his own arms around Harry in return. He can definitely deal with having a Harry attached to him for a while longer.

“Well, can you blame me? I do love your little bum.”

George grins, “My little bum does alright for itself, doesn’t it?”

 


End file.
